


We Clutch Our Bellies and Roll on the Floor

by JayMor



Series: DC Mixtape [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Gen, Jason Todd is Alive, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Pre-Slash, Protective Jason, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, general feelings of worthlessness, oops the only thing I write is sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 12:12:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19173046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMor/pseuds/JayMor
Summary: Jason is ready to fight, to dance with Tim across rooftops. But tonight--tonight Tim doesn't want to play along.





	We Clutch Our Bellies and Roll on the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is mostly angst, and is basically the prequel to a recovery fic I might write. Who knows. I love DC, and Tim Drake and Jason Todd are by _far_ my favorite robins. As such, I guess I'll hurt them.  
> Why do fans do that? @me
> 
> Title comes from the incredible Richard Siken poem, _Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out_.

“Replacement.”

The world lances low and harsh across the rooftop, sending shivers up his spine. Behind him Red Hood—no, Jason—stalks towards him. The grime of the rooftop crunches under his boots.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The sentiment snakes across Tim’s skin, sweetly fake and dangerous in its intent.

“Jason,” Tim greets, forcing himself to turn around, tensing to face the threat despite himself. (Because Jason is a threat now. He’s not Robin anymore, not the boy Tim stalked across twilight Gotham, not a hero. Instead he is a villain dip-dyed in green and painted in red and so _so angry_.)

Jason snarls. There is no response—Tim didn’t expect one. Instead Jason lunges forward, a dark knife glinting under the moonlight, and suddenly Tim is no longer afraid, because this is normal. This is scripted.

(This is a gala full of women who want more, want recognition from the Wayne-Drake heir, want money and fame and anything except Tim, want what Tim can bring without the what Tim costs, where Tim smiles and nods and laughs and smiles and then returns to his brownstone and takes off his tie and stares at old reruns of _Criminal Minds_ until his mind is blank and he blissfully sleeps. This is the sharp dig of his mother’s fingernails against his spine and a hissed reminder to _smile, child_ because no one wants to suffer his tears. This is board meetings at Wayne Enterprises after forty hours without sleep and patrols with Bruce fueled by caffeine and every single smile he has ever offered Alfred because he can’t let anyone know how alone he is, how brittle, how close to breaking.)

Tim doges Jason’s first swipe with ease, dancing to his left with a skip and twirl of his bo staff. Jason growls and attacks again, faster and harder, angrier, with killing intent that Tim knows will burn him if he lets it.

Tim likes Jason.

It’s perhaps an odd sentiment, given how many times Jason has tried to kill him, but a true one, nonetheless.

Jason is honest. Always has been, even when he stole the tires off the Batmobile, even when he broke the collarbones of rapists, even after the Lazarus Pit and Ra’s and all the ways that Bruce let him down (and maybe Tim still admires him a bit, so sue him. Maybe he misses the Jason that laughed on patrol and teased Bruce for being an old man and noticed scrawny little boys hiding on rooftops). His killing intent is honest too.

He doesn’t want to hurt Tim. Erase him maybe, remove him, turn back time, but not kill him. Because even twisted Jason is _still_ a bat, still fights for justice even when his definition is different, still doesn’t use collateral to cause hurt. (Because Tim _is_ collateral. Tim is not who Jason wants to hurt. Tim is the replacement, the stopgap, the fake.)

Jason’s knife glances across Tim’s cheek, millimeters away from the cowl, leaving behind a cut that stings in the Gotham air. Tim doesn’t mind it, nor does Jason.

This is the script after all.

Jason will kick and scream and fight and wound, and Tim will defend and fall and guard and grit his teeth and in the end they will follow the rules and leave bruises on each other’s skin and limp home alone to lick their wounds. Tim will write a report about Red Hood to give to Bruce and Jason will plan his next message to give to Bruce and in a week or two weeks or a month they will meet on another rooftop and do the whole play all over again. (And Tim usually doesn’t mind, because this is his job, to smile and nod and laugh and smile and go home alone and brittle and sit on his couch and suture himself back together in time to do it again, but tonight is not usually. Tonight Tim finds he is tired, and his brittle has become broken, and Jason’s killing intent is not strong enough for Tim to truly die.)

Tim jerks away a second too late, and Jason’s knife again kisses his neck, leaving a thread-thin line of slick red behind to overlap the scars that Tim’s already earned. Jason’s eyes flicker then, with something like regret or fear, a cue for Tim to stop, to move on to Act 5, the curtain call, the standing ovation.

(Tim ignores the script.)

Tim has a knife in his boot. It is small and thin and very sharp, kept pristine with paranoia and Bruce’s teaching. It unassuming and comfortable in his hand, a familiar weight and welcome pressure. Tim places the blade against his throat.

Jason freezes.

(Tim cannot see it but Jason is panicking. Under his helmet his eyes are wide and his breath is short, and he is watching Robin die all over again, only this time _he_ is the Joker and his knife is a crowbar and the rooftop is not a bomb, to rooftop is a graveyard to an ideal because Batman isn’t coming, Batman is late, _Batman has been late for a while now_ ,  Batman is going to let another Robin die.)

Jason drops his knife.

“Replace- No. Tim. Tim, put the knife down.”

Tim does not.

He pushes the blade closer, feels the blood pool and drip, is grateful that his uniform is red. He looks at Jason, at the red helmet staring back at him, wonders if the eyes beneath are green or blue, wonders if Jason is tired too. He smiles a toothy, blood-stained smile.

“I win.”

**Author's Note:**

> There’s art!  
> Thanks to torchsense for this wonderful lil doodle: https://torchsense.tumblr.com/post/185593291390
> 
> come yell at me abt fanfic! —-> https://discord.gg/EF7fb8n


End file.
